Somethings
by Desdemona Kakalose
Summary: I do not know if we are toys to our Gods, but I do know that we are Gods to our toys. And for the sake of such devotion, many horrors could be committed.


**Each Child is a God**

"Why am I here? I'm here because you need me. Don't bother yourself with details; they'll only confuse you."

* * *

If ever a child loved a toy, then so much more did a toy love a child.

That kind of love is consuming; it's a lifeline, and it's a purpose that allows for no obstacle. And though a child may have many toys, a toy will only have one child. The devotion, the complete trust and depthless surety: _that_ is the spirit of an object loved. It is a thing, a _Some_thing, that isn't alive but still longs for a beating heart to swear by, and muscles and sinew to return an embrace, for lips to return kisses with, and blood to spill for sheer _love_.

Imagined things can be made Real. All little children know this. With enough faith, and care, and absolute belief, a something can become a Something. And a Something loved is compelled to love in return, more strongly and deeply and blindly than their creator will ever imagine.

If ever a child loved a toy…

Imagine, for a moment, that you are capable of such love. Imagine, for a moment, that you could see nothing but the soft brown eyes of a boy, no matter what delicate star or radiant blossom or golden city you turned to, hoping for a greater universe. Imagine, for a moment, a devotion so infinite that you _dare_ to pray for lungs and flesh so that you could be crucified for your creator.

…then so much more did a toy love a child.

And Somethings loved for a day live briefly, and Somethings loved for a lifetime live a lifetime longer—with each moment gaining strength and will, absorbing love even as it pours out of them and into the universe, arms desperately grasping through time and space, between nebula and nightmare to take a boy in themselves, and return even an ounce of what they feel.

Some, born in the throes of more desperation than most, know of things beyond love. Some, creations of a child with the breath of creation, the True Imagination, are aware of their own existence. Some, whose children whisper into their deaf ears of pain and sorrow and hopeless wishes, feel hatred and resentment. These emotions, dark and human, twist the nature of love into knots, the slick strands of an intricately woven wooden puzzle. And some, who love so deeply, feel so acutely, and know so very much… some take matters into their own hands.

Why am I here?

A child, lonely. A toy, torn and dreadful. Imagine that you _do_ love with such intensity, and every day you watch your—your _universe_, your creator, parent, best friend and lover, in such _pain_, constant pain that sends him crying to bed at night, small body curled around your even smaller one, desperately seeking the small comfort that you cannot even give him except in his dreams, where all things are real and all lies are truths. You watch misfortune after misfortune befall him, and he still too young to understand what it means…

Because you need me.

What would you do? How could you save him? You come to him in dreams and offer him a body to lie against, a hand to hold. You whisper to him in the daylight, warnings and comforts and promises, advice that you know he'll never heed because he's too good, too perfect, and you love him for it. What do you do?

Make the bad things go away.

It takes a long time. It takes unshakable belief, and endless love, and ultimately luck, but you manage. The dreams, the dreams are single drops of rain on your cracked lips, thirsty in the depths of your almost-soul for something Real. _God_, you want to be Real. Now, it's not just for him; now it's for you too. Because the more Real you become, the more you ache for the feel of blood in your veins, of painful, dry breaths in your lungs, of his fingers woven with your fingers, of _him_.

Now imagine, for a moment, that the window has opened. That slice of time where anything is possible stands before you, now, cut between two stars as you stand on emptiness, determined. The stitches in the skin you chose to have are like reflections, because you were born from the mind of a boy and the boy is cracked, barely held together with such crude stitches that you yourself sewed, at night in his dreams as he cried out in the agony and ecstasy of needle through flesh. The button eyes remain.

Just wish it. Wish for it, and it'll be.

What do you do now? Do you stand by his bed, marvel at the sound of his breathing, the sight of his rising chest? Do you kneel beside him and press your lips to his? Do you look up at the stars for the first time in your existence and realize you couldn't touch them, couldn't speak with them if you tried? Do you take silent step through the halls, love and devotion and murder in your black button eyes? Do you strike a match? Do you take a knife? Do you merely lie beside him until the sun rises, and allow yourself to exist solely for your own pleasure, for these few hours alone?

Tell me, Todd. What would you do?

A Something longs for two things in all of creation: to love, and to be loved. A Something does not fear blood or death or inflicting either. A something has no concept of wrong or right, fears no law, no judgment save the happiness of their creator. A Something would revel in the feel of a still pumping heart in its hand, valves torn and dripping, blue veins reddening between its fingers. A Something would murder with laughter, blood soaked and praising, would cut each slice with rapturous Alleluias as the earth cowered in horror—if only for sheer love of their child.

For if ever a child loved a toy…

_Yes Todd. All for you._


End file.
